The Straight Road Into the West
by Apollo's Chariot
Summary: On a cold evening in February a lonely man stands on a riverbank and watches his brother float off to sea.


A/N: I really don't know how I came up with this story. I don't believe that it's really been done before, but if I'm wrong, then I hope this is a refreshing version. I find it the slightest bit morbid, but I rather like it. Please R/R!  
~** Leah  
  
The Straight Road Into the West  
  
The chill waters of the Anduin roar and eddy, flowing ever southwest. He stands on the green border of Ithilien, watching the molten sun drown in a sea of fire. An ethereal glow shines off his blowing hair, outlining the faint lines in his young face. To the east an ominous shadow lingers and grows, the weight heavy on his soul. He is weary; his body is sore, and his heart sick. Eyes gazing longingly westward, he bites back the pang of despair.  
In the deepening dark a shape appears on the edge of night's veil. It moves swiftly down the river, drawing his piercing gaze. He follows its path with his eyes, watching it part the waters like a keen blade. A dread grows in his heart-he knows not why. As Urwendi and her maidens draw the Sun towards the high peak of Kalorme the last rays of sunlight fall upon the nearing shadow, and a sickening thud dulls his pulsing heart. He slowly wades into the biting waters, his skull pounding. As he draws near to the spectral shape he halts and stares with a deathly force. It is no shadow, but a fair, carved boat of Elven craft. He gazes into it, eyes bright and welling, for he somehow knows what he will see.  
The bloodied body of a man, noble and fair. Sword clasped to a broad chest in cold, clenched fists, notched weapons arranged at his sides. A belt of finely wrought gold leaves girt about his waist. The white boat slices through the water.  
He stares brokenly at the fleeting vessel, bearing away the shell of one held dear. Cool gray eyes now fringed with tears, he looks bitterly at the cloven horn held loosely in his hands. Despair wins the struggle. Grief and anger, love, pain, and finally defeat fall on his heart like fell hammerstrokes, ringing in succession. The boat disappears into the flaming sun. All is gone.  
Tears fall like spring rains. One, two, a dozen then he forces them back. He stands, lost, in the river, water chill against his quickly numbing skin.  
Nothing matters any longer.  
How could anything good prevail?  
How could anything fair survive?  
He slowly turns and climbs to dry land. Breathing in shuddering heaves, he closes his eyes and sobs, shoulders trembling like dry leaves.  
  
In another world, winter passes like rain on a mountain. The blue skies are clear, and the broad shores are white, and the leaves fall not. Smiling children sing in the wooded hills, and the people are glad, for they have not worries. In another world, that we all must journey to one day, music rings like rushing water.  
  
He walks east, away from the drifting boat, and every piece of his body longs to be in that world. To sail west on a proud ship of glowing white, for the seas to fall away, and to be lifted up and carried by the grace of the Valar to the Lonely isle, and beyond to the shining gates of Valmar. But his heart is heavy with sorrow, for he knows with bitter truth that his wish cannot be redeemed. The moon rises over his tawny head, and he vanishes into the forest, pain tearing at his heart.  
Rana bathes the Anduin with silver light.  
Why does he go on, when there is no hope?  
  
What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?  
Have you seen Boromir the Tall, by moon or by starlight?  
  
I will not say, "Do not weep," for not all tears are an evil.  
  
My eyes darken.  
  
Do not weep for those whose time has come.  
  
My body is broken.  
  
Death is but another journey; one that we all must take.  
  
And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the gray rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.  
  
There is no going back.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Notes: In The Book of Lost Tales, the Vala Urwendi and her maidens are said to guide the ship Sari-or the Sun-through the Outer Airs. Kalorme is the easternmost mountain on Arda-translates to "Sun-rising hill." Rana the ship we call the moon.  
  
A/N: Well, I hope you enjoyed this. Obviously I used various direct and slightly adapted quotes from both the movies and the books. You could call this a fic about the meaning of death, I guess! Thanks for reading-please review!  
Cheers!  
~**Leah 


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